


In The Eye

by InnerSpectrum



Series: December Ship and Gen Challenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AO3 Facebook Group Challenges, December Ship and Gen Challenge, Mirrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Mycroft had no illusions to who he was and what he looked like - in his own mind.  No other opinion of him mattered.Until one did...





	In The Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: December Ship and Gen Challenge: Day 3 - Mirror/Mirror (Romantic)

He was in the downstairs washroom when he heard him.

“I hate sharing a room with him when we visit, Mummy. It takes FOREVER for him to bathe because there’s so MUCH of him! He’s huge!”

“Watch your mouth, Theodore. That’s not nice!”

“You didn’t say it isn’t true, Mummy.”

“Theo stop it now. Another word like that and no supper!”

His Aunt Clarissa and Cousin Theodore were visiting Musgrave for the Holidays. Though there were enough bedrooms that the boy could have his own space, because they were only a few months apart in age, Mummy and his aunt thought it best the two share his room.

He was tall for his age, but not tall enough to not need the step stool to reach the taps on the sink. He tiptoed up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The round face, the ginger, the freckles. For the first time in his life he felt – fat.

Mycroft was five. 

“Mummy am I handsome?” He asked of the one person who had never lied to him one afternoon.

“You are big-boned like your uncles. Height and heaviness and those ice-blue eyes run on the Holmes side of the family. Your brother I can tell will get his good looks from my side of the family. You and he got your brains from the Vernet side as well.” Mummy, in the midst of preparing Christmas Eve dinner absently answered. He nodded, thanked his mother and walked away.

“You’re lucky. You’re going to be smart and handsome,” He sat next to his sleeping baby brother, gently ruffling the dark curls, “I’m going to always be the smart ugly one.”

“How did the downstairs mirror break?” He heard his father call out to his mother.

“I did not know it was broken.” Mummy replied.

He was eleven.

“Hey Walrus!” Twelve.

“I’ve only seen noses like those on birds!” Fourteen.

“At least you’re smart.” Sixteen.

“Gosh if I connected all those freckles on your back, no one would see your pale skin.” Seventeen.

“Are you sick, son?” his father, who never knew what he really did for work.  “What did they do to you, child?” Mummy, who figured it out immediately. “Welcome back. How’s the diet, bro?” his brother who never seemed to care either way.

Father slipped a Band-Aid in his pocket. Mummy kissed his hand. Sherlock shook his head, but no one said a word to him when the mirror in his bedroom broke. It was his first time home after two years of field work. He was twenty-one.

By the time he was fully ensconced in his Uncle Rudi’s footsteps he had no illusions to who he was and what he looked like - in his own mind.  It was the only opinion of him that mattered.

Everyone admired his intellect. Some tolerated his personality. None ever commented on his looks except when _working._  And in a career based on who can tell the best lies, he knew better than to trust anyone’s word in that forum.

For over fifteen years, and several broken mirrors, no other opinion mattered.

Until one did.

Mycroft had fallen in love and the person of his affections was unaware.

He was not sure when it happened, but once he realized that one opinion mattered – for once he was at a loss as to what to do. The one person he could ask, the one person outside of his parents who has never lied to him, is the one person he absolutely could not ask.

Then that only other person outside of his parents, who has never even tried to lie to him, that person of his affections said something incredible one night.

“Did you know I, know I, I think your handsome? A-always did. Yup” Greg leaned against him in the sedan when it made a sharp turn.

“Lestrade you’re drunk!” Mycroft who had come to pick up an inebriated Sherlock found himself taking a flat out drunk Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade home as well. He gently pushed the man upright in disbelief of what he just heard.

“Yeah. So?  I’se drunk…and? Still true.” Lestrade nodded in confirmation of his fact. “You’re good looking.”

“Drunk mouths speak sober minds, brother mine.” Sherlock giggled as the sedan pulled up to 221b Baker Street. Gangling legs found their way to the pavement.

“Shut. Shut your trap Sh’lock. Your brother is a…a handsome bloke. I’d do…do…him, let him do … you know.” Lestrade waved a finger in the consulting detective’s erstwhile direction oblivious to Sherlock’s exit from the sedan.

“He keeps his keys in the front left pocket. Good luck.” Sherlock laughed at Mycroft’s stunned expression as he closed the sedan door and stumbled away.

“I bet…I bet… I bet you’re gorgeouser all nakey under those suits.”  

“I sincerely doubt that.” Mycroft huffed.

“Hmmm.” Greg leaned against Mycroft’s shoulder again and promptly fell asleep.

Mycroft was grateful no one else was there to see as guided the man to his flat and put him to bed. Grateful no one saw him leaving a glass of water and paracetamol on the nightstand for when Greg awakened. And absolutely grateful no one saw him kiss the sleeping forehead of the object his affections as Mycroft wished for sober words and minds.

Finally home himself, that night was the first time in many years he stood nude in front of his full length mirror and looked at himself. He still did not love what he saw, but for once he did not outright hate it.

The next morning Mycroft could not decide if it was a blessing or a curse, that of the men in the sedan only he and his driver remembered what was said. Lestrade was hungover and effusive in his apologies. Sherlock ignored him of course. Mycroft himself said nothing.

Less than a year later Mycroft stood in front of that same mirror at home. Only this time the object of his affections stood behind him as he was methodically stripped bare physically and emotionally. Gregory Lestrade, the object of his affections, the one person who has never lied to him, stood him in front of the mirror and sang of his praises and of his love for Mycroft.

For the first time in his life Mycroft looked in a mirror and felt he might actually be handsome after all.

He never broke a mirror again.


End file.
